Birthright: Pray your past stays hidden (Alex Turner Book 1)

by Richard Blade

  “Is this room secure?”

  “Of course. I’m the Director of Five. It’s hardly an open-door policy here, you know.”

  “Are there any recording devices? If so, this is an official request that you disclose them to me, or if you fail to do so, any contents or recordings on those devices will be viewed as entrapment and cannot be used as evidence now or at any time in the future, in any court of law in the land.”

  Colin’s formal tone and repetition of a legal warning puzzled Simon, “No, there are no recording devices. This is a secure room.”

  “Good. I’m calling the Minister of Defense on my cell. I want you here with me for authentication.” Colin pulled out his mobile and slipped the mini-USB into the power connection at the bottom of the phone. Simon recognized it immediately as a high-level security device to scramble and avoid the interception and recording of calls.

  Colin punched a number on his contact list and waited. The call was answered before the second ring, “M.O.D. here.”

  “Minister, it’s Signet with Six. Raven is also here representing Five. You might have heard of the level three lockdown in effect. We now have confirmation of a Code Red strike in progress.”

  There was silence before the Minister of Defense replied, “I am required to ask, is this a drill?”

  “Unfortunately not, Minister. We are confirmed Code Red.”

  “My God! Who? Do you have a target and time frame, and what measures are needed to stop them?”

  “They are the same bombers who attacked the British Museum and destroyed the church in Thaxted.”

  “I was told they were dead?”

  “We thought they were. But they have been seen boarding a plane bound for Faro, Portugal. All three of them. We have a positive ID.”

  “Faro? The Algarve? What is it, a terrorist holiday?”

  “We wish it was, Minister. They intend to hijack the plane and fly it to Biarritz. There they will detonate it over the city. The death toll this time of year, with the town full of tourists from all across Europe, would be extremely high.”

  Hearing this, Simon took his eyes from the phone and stared incredulously at Colin.

  The M.O.D. continued, “What could they possibly want with Biarritz?”

  “We have been informed it’s to make a political statement. They will send the French this information a few minutes before detonation. If we don’t act to intervene, we will be blamed as complicit in the attack. The plane left a British airport carrying the three Americans. They will consider our inaction as a deliberate payback for not supporting us in the Middle East and for the growing tensions since Brexit and the closing of our borders to France during the Covid-19 pandemic. Who knows what their Socialist government will do, but we’ll have thousands of dead and a political mess on our hands which the French could escalate to the entire EU and begin a crippling trade war.”

  “Damn it. With our economy in the shitter, this is the last thing we need right now. What does Six suggest?”

  “We have been unable to turn the plane around, so we have to assume it is as good as lost already. We know from the destruction caused in Thaxted what these bombers are capable of. We must stop them from reaching French airspace and detonating above Biarritz. I need fighters to intercept and destroy the plane over the ocean.”

  “Did you say destroy it?” Britain’s Minister of Defense was shocked, “We’ve done a hundred intercepts but never this. Certainly not with a passenger plane.”

  “Minister, we’ve never faced this before. These are armed terrorists who have already attacked British assets twice. And we know from 9/11 the devastation a commercial jet can cause to a town or city.”

  The line went quiet before the Minister of Defense spoke again, “Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll have the RAF put two Typhoons up to trail the plane. I’ll hand control over to you only if the plane deviates from its set flight plan and heads for Biarritz.”

  “That’s perfect, Minister. I’ll stand by on this number for your call.” Colin hung up.

  “What the hell was that?” Simon demanded.

  “Taking care of business.”

  “The MOD sounded as if he didn’t know what this is really about and what the Americans are after. Have you even talked with him about this operation?”

  “There was no reason to speak to him before. This has always been a need-to-know op.”

  “Wait.” Simon was confused, “Who else have you left out? Does the Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, or even the Palace, know about any of this?”

  Colin glared back at Simon, his silence answering the question.

  “You’re running this yourself, aren’t you?” Simon continued. “You only brought me in because Six can’t operate freely within England so you needed me and you needed Five’s resources.”

  “I brought you in for a reason. You’re the head of MI5, I don’t have to tell you your motto.”

  “No, you don’t.” It was Simon’s turn to get angry, “And it is very different from yours, from MI6’s, Semper Occultus – Always Secret. Ours is not about concealment and self-interest, it is open and about service to our country, and I have lived with it and believed it, every word, for twenty-two years. Regnum Defende - Defend The Realm.”

  “And what is the realm if not the Crown? Why involve them unnecessarily? Would you have them fall?”

  “I would never allow the Crown to fall. But the Americans must know? They gave you full cooperation when you were there.”

  “Yes, of course the Americans know. They don’t have the same scruples as you. Their military is always their top priority. When they found out this situation, they were the ones who funded the operation. Do you think they would risk even a one-percent chance of losing their bases in the UK or any of our overseas territories? No, there’s far too much money involved.”

  “But you are talking about killing people, innocent people.”

  “Don’t try pulling that on me. I’m not deliberately targeting the passengers; they just happen to be in the way. If there was another solution, I’d take it. And what did you think we would do when we found the kid and the other two? Talk nasty to them?”

  “There has to be a better way. There must be.”

  “No. While that boy is alive the freedom and safety of every person in Britain and America is at risk. If he took the throne and used that influence to rip apart our alliance, what would happen then? Without our support in Iraq and Afghanistan, the American losses would have been catastrophic, and without the US forces standing with us in Europe, the Russians would come through Germany and Poland so fast it would make World War II look like a Sunday picnic.”

  “But we don’t know for sure the boy would cause those kinds of problems.”

  “My sources tell me otherwise. I already let you in on what his plans and leanings might be, and there are a lot of important people who aren’t willing to take any chances. Like it or not, we’re the guardians of the free world and neither country can do it alone. Isn’t it worth sacrificing a few lives for the greater good of many?”

  “Not if those lives include innocent passengers on that plane. You’d never get away with it,” threatened Simon.

  “How did someone so fucking naïve become the head of one of our security services?” Colin was disgusted, “Of course we’d get away with it. Write a few checks, pay a little compensation, send out some sympathetic letters and it will be forgotten in days. It was with TWA flight 800 when the US Navy blew it from the sky in ninety-six, and when the Russians took out Korean Air 007, it hardly made headlines, and we were so busy preparing for the Covid-19 outbreak in 2020 that when Iran, of all nations, fired their missiles and killed all one hundred and seventy-six people on the Ukrainian Airlines plane, nobody batted an eye. Who will give a shit when we say three terrorists who had already burned down a beloved church, died when they bombed a flight to Portugal?”

  Simon stood silent in the face of Colin’s twisted logic, but having d
ealt with so many in a position of power and wealth, he found it hard to dispute his claims.

  “Do you have radio capabilities here in your office?” asked Colin.

  “Absolutely. The entire building is linked with the center downstairs,” replied Simon.

  “Then have your people set up a direct line with the pilot of Flight 4052, then patch it through to me. I need to speak to him.”

  Praying it would bring about a peaceful conclusion, Simon grabbed the internal phone to have the communications put in place.

  The sun was dropping toward the horizon as two Eurofighter Typhoons screamed skyward from RAF Coningsby. The pilots of Eleven squadron reached five thousand feet before banking their planes hard east to take them the forty miles across Lincolnshire and out over the ocean. There they could engage their afterburners, gain altitude and go supersonic in pursuit of their target, a lumbering 737 carrying two hundred and three passengers and seven crew.

  The lead pilot checked his course; based on the relative speed and direction, they should be in range in thirty-one minutes. He glanced over his shoulder through the hardened Perspex canopy and smiled. That would still give them plenty of daylight to make a visual ID. He wasn’t sure what this was all about, whether it was another exercise or one of the endless drills they were put through, but he did know that immediately prior to takeoff they had armed the four BVR Meteor advanced long-range missiles he carried beneath his swept-back wings. If this wasn’t a training sortie, then someone was in for a very unpleasant evening.

  “I have the pilot on the line. You’re patched through,” said Simon. He pointed to his phone.

  Colin reached for it and hesitated, “Secure?”

  “It’s secure, and you can use the headset. But remember, it’s a commercial flight; the plane will have their Black Box recording the call at their end.”

  Colin stiffened. He would have to deal with that eventuality later if the box wasn’t destroyed in the blast or subsequent crash. He pulled on the headset and mic, “Flight 4052, come in. This is Colin Brown with MI6, London.”

  There was a momentary delay before a female voice came over the line, “MI6, this is flight 4052, pilot Angela Griffin. How can I help you?”

  “Pilot Griffin, is your cockpit secure?”

  “MI6, it is, and we have no problems or unusual activity onboard.” A smile crept into her voice, “Apart from this. It’s my first conversation with Britain’s SIS.”

  “I’m sorry to have to make this call, and to inform you we have confirmed three armed fugitives are on your plane. For your safety and for the safety of the passengers, we need you to alter your course to Biarritz, and land there, where we will have a security team waiting.”

  “MI6, this is highly unusual. I need you to reconfirm this order.”

  “Pilot Griffin, it is indeed unusual. These persons have been pursued by the police and MI5 for several days and were responsible for the attack on the British Museum and the bombing of the Thaxted Parish Church.”

  “MI6, I am aware of both events. I saw them on the news. They’re the ones on board?”

  “I’m afraid so. They managed to get through the security in Manchester with arms and explosives. Please switch to radio frequency Alpha Bravo Seven, I repeat Alpha Bravo Seven, and lock all future transmissions to that bandwidth. That way, if anything happens before you reach Biarritz, we can monitor the cockpit radio broadcasts without them knowing we are listening in.”

  “MI6, will do. What should I tell the passengers about the course change?’

  “You’re the pilot, make something up. Weather or mechanical. Let them know it’ll only be for a brief time. Once our people board the plane and remove them, you’ll be on your way again.”

  “Got it, MI6. Anything further before we change transmission codes?”

  “No, Pilot Griffin. Godspeed to you and your passengers.”

  “Thank you. Switching now.”

  The line went dead.

  Simon glared at Colin, “If I’m not mistaken, Alpha Bravo Seven is a restricted MI6 frequency.”

  “Exactly. We’ll be the only ones who can reach them.”

  “If you’re wrong about this, hundreds of innocent people will die needlessly.”

  “I wasn’t wrong yesterday. You were.”

  “What now?”

  Colin tapped his secure cell phone, “I’ll wait for the Minister of Defense to call me on the status of the fighters.”

  “You can stay here in my office. I’m going back down to Communications. I want to see if they’ve come across any new information that could help.”

  Colin nodded his approval, happy that Simon and his negative vibes were both leaving.

  Simon rushed into the National Communications Center of MI5, desperate for anything to change the tragedy that lay inevitably ahead. “Give me an update, people,” he demanded.

  “We have firm radar fixes on Flight 4052 from our posts in Jersey and Plymouth. The plane is still on course for Faro,” answered a tech monitoring her screen.

  “I’m picking up two fighters in pursuit. Three hundred and ten kilometers behind and closing fast,” called out another operative.

  Simon paced over to the original technician who had found the names on the manifest, “Any changes to report?”

  “Only this,” replied the agent. “I pulled up these scans from passport control. All three check out. Alex Turner, Caitlin Shannon and Edward York traveling as Colin Brown, Positive IDs on their pictures. They went through security at Terminal Three in Manchester.”

  “Damn.” Simon had been praying for a different answer.

  “And I’ve contacted the airline for a copy of the final manifest after they land,” added the tech.

  Simon was taken aback by the comment, “Final manifest?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s something they complete on the plane when the doors are closed. It’s not released until after they touch down.”

  “I thought we had the final manifest?”

  “The gate has supplied the ticketed manifest,” said the tech. “The final manifest takes into account any overbooking, stand-bys, and no-shows. It’s standard airline procedure.”

  “Is there a chance they’re not on the plane?”

  “A very small chance. It wasn’t a sold-out flight so they wouldn’t have been bumped-”

  “Is their car still in the lot?”

  “Let me find out. I have the reference number for the camera. Give me a minute.”

  “Please hurry.”

  The tech could hear the desperation in his superior’s voice, “Okay. This is a live picture right now.”

  Simon stared at the screen. Damn it, he thought to himself. The blue Ford Fiesta was sitting there. It hadn’t moved.

  The tech could feel his disappointment, “Sorry, sir, but if they split, they didn’t leave in that car.”

  Simon swung his head away from the display to the technician, “What did you say?”

  “That if they left, it wasn’t in that car, sir. They would have had to have taken another.”

  “Oh my God! Get me airport parking control for Terminal Three on the phone right now.”

  The sky turned orange as a beautiful sunset drew in over the Atlantic. The two Typhoons adjusted their course and headed due south, their afterburners closing the miles between them and their target.

  The lead pilot tweaked his heads-up display and the radar image of the passenger plane disappeared, and in the distance, he could pick out its vapor trail with his naked eyes.

  He clicked on his radio, “M.O.D., this is Typhoon Strike One. We have a visual on the target.”

  The command center of the Ministry of Defense in Whitehall had switched to wartime mode. Military personnel crowded the room, barely giving enough space for the radio and video operators to man their displays. The Minister of Defense, in his full dress Admiral’s uniform answered the call himself.

  “Typhoon Strike One. Hang back and maintain distance. Do not los
e visual contact, but you are not to engage unless ordered.”

  “M.O.D, this is Typhoon Strike One. Remaining fifty miles behind target. We will take no action unless instructed.”

  The Minister turned to his other officers, “So far, so good. The plane is still on course for Faro. If it stays that way the local police can handle things on the ground for Six and we can call off the hounds.” He gazed at the radar screen mapping the relative positions and progress of the three planes, “But if not…” his voice trailed off at the possibility of giving the terrible order.

  The Boeing 737, pursued by the two fighters, continued south across the Bay of Biscay.

  “He’s on the line, sir.”

  “About time!” Simon ceased his nervous pacing and grabbed the phone, “Who is this?”

  The voice confirmed they had reached the right person, “It’s Charles Perry, the supervisor for Terminal Three parking. What do you need?”

  “My name is Simon Foster from MI5 and this-”

  The voice interrupted him, “MI5? No shit. What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Perry, if you’ll let me talk, I’ll tell you. We have a high-level security threat we are handling and we need to know if you can access the cameras and registers of all the attendants on duty during the past ninety minutes?”

  He took a long breath, “That’s hard. We have eighteen cameras monitoring the lot. Actually seventeen, one’s been sent out to be fixed. It was damaged in the last rains we had. And we have three exit booths, with two cameras at each, one for the license plate and the other covering the driver and the attendant. It would take a while to go through them all.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have a while. We have to have this now.”

  “Then help me out here. What are you looking for? A hit and run? Mugging? A smashed window? What?”

  “We’re looking for someone who left in the last sixty minutes, probably paid cash, and possibly had no exit ticket with them. And there would be three passengers in the car.”

  “What kind of car would it be?”